


Rekindled

by tenscupcake



Category: Doctor Who RPF
Genre: F/M, Infidelity, Prompt Fic, RPF
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-11-18
Updated: 2014-12-02
Packaged: 2018-02-26 03:02:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,308
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2635586
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tenscupcake/pseuds/tenscupcake
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>David's new 'do brings back some fond memories for Billie.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I don't even know what this is. Everyone and their mother is flipping a lid about David's trimmed mane, though, myself included, and I had the urge to write a d/b story centered around it. Oh, and Amber gave me the plot bunnies and asked nicely and I instantly caved despite my writing workload :D Hope you guys like it!  
> Warning: infidelity (mostly implied/internal but certainly a dominant theme)

Her screen lights up in the middle of dinner. She covers her mouth with the back of her hand to stop the grin from spreading across her face when she sees his name.

\- Bills, I won! -

She doesn’t understand for a moment. Manages to keep up conversation with the others at the table as she thumbs through the last couple weeks of sporadic messages to find what she’s looking for. Shame she forgot to set the DVR.

\- I knew you would, Dave. Congrats! :) -

She just manages to poke at the remaining half of a salad and chunk of bread with her fork the rest of the evening. Another text arrives as they pile into the cab.

\- Come and celebrate tomorrow night -

\- Your place? –

\- Yeah. Kids will be with their grandparents –

She deletes her ‘okay’ three times before she hits send.

Doesn’t get a chance to browse social media or even turn on the telly before they’re pulling up outside his home not twenty-four hours later.

Her husband is close on her heels, going on about excitement to see their mates since they got out of the car, but the words hardly register. His hand rests on her shoulder as she rings the bell, and suddenly she’s tethered to his side, clearly marked as taken just like any other time David’s around (she worries if the ring on her finger isn’t enough).

It’s him that answers the door, of course.

“You made it!” She wants to return his beaming smile but her lips are frozen in place.

Really should have checked the net.

The tight blue jeans don’t conceal his ever-slim frame, he’s never been shy about an open collar, scruff still covers his cheeks and jaw. It’s his hair, though, freshly cropped and styled into a spiky disarray that’s soft and inviting as ever, that makes her breath catch in her lungs. It’s not just a new look; it’s youth and reminiscence and suddenly a door to the past bursts open in her mind.

_As soon as he closes the door behind them her lips are on his, desperate and insistent, her hips push him back into the door and her hands clutch at fistfuls of his hair. He’s not fazed, his gentle fingers quickly working under her shirt, thumbs drawing circles over the bare skin of her waist as he pulls her even closer._

_Soft kisses pepper her cheeks as she breaks for air, gasping hot against his skin. His lips reach her ear and he pulls her earlobe into her mouth, sucking gently until she can’t stop from sighing his name._

_“Been thinking about me all day, Bill?” he breathes, her shirt bunching up as fingertips trace a slow path to the clasp of her bra. She shivers when backs of his nails graze along her spine and he makes a very pleased hum in the back of his throat._

_“Shut up,” she whispers back, threading her fingers through his hair to bring his lips to hers once more._

“I’m glad you two could come on such short notice,” he says as he closes the door behind them, practically laughing with his cheerfulness. The man now holding her hand responds with something she can’t process, uses the other hand to take David’s with an iron grip and a firm shake. David’s always had a childlike positivity, an enthusiasm for life that’s normally infectious but at the moment she’s too caught up in memories to return it. Still hasn’t spoken a word, in fact.

“Of course. Thanks for inviting us.” She remedies her muteness but it sounds forced to her ears, scripted. Another silence follows but it’s even more awkward, the three of them standing in the entryway, and she’s silently waiting for him to address her specifically but being let down with each passing second.

“So, ehm, you can hang your coats there.” He indicates the rack behind them. “Everyone else is in the living room.” He nods to his left as they both divest their outermost layers, stuffing both hands in the pockets of his jeans a way that outlines the shape of what’s between them just slightly too much... Damn. She glances down, unmistakable. His eyes flash to hers briefly, telling her he noticed. She bites her lip and looks to the floor, clicking her heels together and taking a deep breath.

He leads them to the kitchen to take their fill of appetizers and alcohol before they join the rest of the guest list (which is admittedly smaller than she’d thought). She’s left on her own when her date adjourns to the restroom approximately twenty minutes later.

David swoops in from his rounds of the small crowd in only a handful of seconds.

“Good to see you, Bill.” He encloses her in a hug like he hasn’t seen her in months, and she realizes that’s how long it’s been. Her arms come around his neck and she can’t help from running her fingers through his hair again, silky despite the trim.

She gasps when his scruff tickles and scratches her neck before he releases her, his lips pressing so briefly against her skin he might be able to play it off as accidental to and unwitting eavesdroppers.

_She curses when he latches onto her pulse point, enough pressure to leave a mark but not enough to hurt, not when soft lips heal everywhere his teeth sink in. God, no, this doesn’t hurt. Pinned to the couch beneath him the only thing she can do is encourage him, her fingers twisting in the short hairs near his neck and slowly moving higher, keeping him where he is._

_Her nails scratch lightly along his scalp behind his ears and he growls, shifting to a different spot. Searching with lips and tongue and teeth until he finds it, that spot where her neck meets her shoulder he knows will drive her insane. Broad strokes of his tongue circle the spot as his lips part and brush over her skin, sensitizing with tiny nips of his teeth and more swirls of his tongue before sucking hard._

_She can feel the bruise forming as the pleasure shoots down her spine but doesn’t care, is too far gone. Muffles her moan against his hair and rocks her hips against his but doesn’t quite hit the spot she needs to._

_The ceiling swirls dizzyingly overhead when he thrusts down to meet her, slow and teasing, brushes her just right without pausing his ministrations on her neck. She moans again; he groans against her skin before his lips find hers again, teeth clicking and tongues tangling in their rushed excitement. He’s hungry for her sounds and she’s happy to give him that when he grinds against her again._

_“Dave, please,” she whimpers against his lips._

“So, tell me more about America,” she volunteers, fighting to suppress the blush from her cheeks and will away the tingling warmth between her thighs.

“Was great, yeah.” He scratches at the back of his head and his eyes wander from her face a bit and she wonders if he’s as nervous as she feels. “Think you know most everything, though. Did a few talk shows, took the kids to Disney, you know.”

“Oh, that’s right! How did they like the park?”

“It was fun, yeah.” He nods, looking more at ease with her questions. A bit crowded. Got recognized by lots of people. Which is something I should have been more prepared for, I suppose.”

“You’re famous all around the globe, now.” She says it like she’s joking but it’s startlingly accurate – he really can’t go anywhere these days.

“Yeah, looks like it.” He agrees with a chuckle and a bright smile but she knows he’s too modest to really believe it. “It’s good to be home, though. I’ve sure missed everyone, and the family has, too, of course.”

“Well, we’re glad to have you back.” She uses the plural and smiles, not wanting to let on how much it aches when he’s gone for long periods of time.

“I’ve been watching Gracepoint, by the way. It’s great. I think I may like it as well as Broadchurch.” She has to say anything at all to keep the conversation about him.

“Oh, is it airing over here?” His eyebrows pull together in confusion, his mouth contorting into a bemused face that makes her giggle again.

“No, I’ve got a friend who showed me how to get it online. I think your accent’s improved, too, since…” She laughs wholeheartedly and he takes a guess at her meaning.

“That night I Skyped you?”

“When you couldn’t get the word ‘door’ right?”

“Yeah, yeah,” he laughs with her. For a moment she forgets about everything as the occupants of the room fade from her senses because this is so _them_ : laughing about something stupid like there’s no one else around, like they’re the only ones in the room that matter. She’s missed him like mad.

“Well, don’t worry, you’ve nailed it now.” She plays her fingertip around the edges of her wine glass, the smooth, cold rim a decent distraction from the fluttering in her chest.

“Thanks.” He smiles that boyish smile again and dodges eye contact, still loathe to accept a generous compliment, even from her.

She finds herself staring north of his eyes again, fixated on the haphazard style of his short locks and losing the battle to shove down the memories clawing their way to the surface again.

“So, you like the haircut, then?” he asks, a knowing smirk on his lips, one eyebrow arching like he knows he’s got her.

“Looking sharp, as always, Teninch.” It’s flirtatious but nothing beyond their usual banter, nothing beyond what everyone else in the room thinks is purely platonic teasing between them.

“I don’t know, it might be a bit too short.” His fingers comb into the front of the cropped mane, pulling this way and that to test the length several times, ruffling it up even more than it already was. It’s not that his hair hasn’t, for the most part, remained fairly short in recent years, though not quite this short. It’s the playful style that’s just barely reminiscent of the Doctor: it breathes new life into his eyes, makes his smile eight years younger. Takes her back to a time when they were unattached and taking advantage of each other between scenes was innocent.

She hums softly, chewing her bottom lip, pretending to consider his question and then her hand is brushing his to the side, roaming over the top of his head, the short, smooth strands brushing her fingers, a thin layer of sticky product tickling her skin just the way it used to. He steps closer, bows his head, breathes a sigh of contentment that tips her over the edge.

_“Oh, God,” she sobs as her fingers grasp wildly at his hair, and he loves the sound of her need, draws it out, rolls his tongue around her clit in slow, deliberate circles._

_His hair is the only thing that distracts her from finishing right then. She focuses on the soft thickness of it, starts to move her fingers in circular motions against his scalp, hopes he likes it. He hums with pleasure against her, the vibration of his lips coaxing out another moan and it’s embarrassing how close she already is._

_She tries to concentrate. Notices a mild product clinging to her skin where she’s been massaging his head, something less than gel but more than hairspray. Something purely David._

_He disapproves of her silence, dips two fingers inside her as he drags the flat of his tongue through her folds from entrance to her clit, its coarse width leaving no nerve ending untouched. His name tumbles from her lips as she tugs desperately on his hair, to somehow have him even closer. The slick tip of his tongue dances just where she wants it, alternating teasing rings and direct pressure while his fingers push back with delicious friction from the inside._

_So close. Too close. And oh, he knows the signs. Her legs spread wider for him, fingers of his other hand dig into her waist, palm presses into her hip to keep her still, her cries crescendo with each stroke of his tongue_

_His lips close around her and with the lightest bit of suction she’s gone, calling his name again as her fingers twist in his hair. He groans in victory because he’s good, and he knows exactly what to do to draw this out, opens his lips in a gentle kiss, softens the rough swirls of his tongue as the waves wash over her. Slower, softer, lighter until her thighs shudder around him and she goes quiet above him._

_He kisses the inside of her thigh before meeting her eyes and climbing up her body, slim fingers mapping out her bare skin as much as he can on their journey. He hovers over her and lowers himself gently, his rigid length still trapped inside his trousers though his shirt is somewhere across the trailer. His brogue is stronger than ever in his husky tones of arousal, lips still glistening with her pleasure._

_“You’re beautiful, Bill.”_

“So, what have you two been chatting about?” The voice startles her from her inappropriate memory, as it doesn’t belong to the man whose hair she’s currently stroking. She drops her hand from David’s head and he straightens, clearing his throat and glancing over to greet her plus one with a nod.

“He wanted my opinion on his hair. It’s a little on the short side, maybe. But it’ll grow out.” She says, with an innocent smile for them both.

“Yeah.” David shrugs with a wave of his hand.

“Tell us about the award, then,” booms the excited voice from next to her as his arm comes around her waist, and she knows their precarious moment alone is over. It’s a struggle to wrestle her thoughts back under control but she does it, ignoring the pooling moisture that’s screaming at her, making her insane with craving for _him_. The one not next to her but across from her. The one that’s not tattooed on her finger. Cliché as it sounds, the one that got away.

She texts him later, when she’s in the loo, tells him the hand soap is empty.

There’s a light rasp on the door not a minute later.

He hasn’t brought any hand soap.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Because Amber and Lisa and baddest asked and I have an uncontrollable need to please people. And I had lots of new material to work with because SOMEONE (to use Amber's words) can't keep their foot out of their mouth at conventions *COUGH*BILLIE*COUGH* Ahem.  
> Warning for cheating still applies, probably moreso now than in the first chapter.

Two weeks pass, and he doesn’t think about it.

Well, not on purpose.

It isn’t his fault that his heart races when his phone vibrates in his pocket, slows to a stop when it’s another call from the woman he _should_ be thinking about, rather than the one he is. That his breath catches in his throat whenever his youngest walks into _that_ restroom, like he might find some evidence to damn him with.

That he has to bite down his forearm when he seeks relief in the solitude of the very same tiny water closet in the middle of the night, to keep from waking the entire family with his betrayal. Because in his lovesick mind it’s so easy to imagine it’s her hand rather than his mediocre fist, her fingers clenched around him soft and damp with his sweat, her voice in his ear with filthy words, encouraging him… and that’s all it takes before he spills into the sink in what must be another embarrassing record time.

No, it isn’t his fault; he blames everything on her. Even standing in the loo at three in the morning, bracing himself on the counter and twisting the knob for hot water to rinse away the sin, feeling more pathetic than he has in months, he curses her. It’s easier than confronting the fact that even after all this time, all she’s put him through, he’s willing to sacrifice five years of fidelity for her.

Really, though, she started the whole thing, this time.

_“Hey, Dave.” How she can achieve it with hardly more volume than a whisper is beyond him, but it’s a siren’s call and she knows it, a growing smirk on her lips and every last of her charms gleaming from her eyes._

_He closes the door behind himself, turns the lock with as little noise as he can manage._

_“Bring a refill for the soap?” His hands are empty and she’s having far too much fun with this, asking questions she knows the answer to while she fiddles with her phone, like she’s trying to convince him she has better things to do than the man who’s now standing in the claustrophobic room with her._

_“Hmm. Actually, I didn’t, because…” He whispers as he steps to the sink, placing his palm over the dispenser and slowly pushes it down. “I was just in here,” he explains as some creamy yellowish stuff dispenses from the tip and lands in the sink. “About two hours ago…” He presses again; more liquid oozes out of the container and into a gloopy puddle in the otherwise pristine black marble. “Refilling this for tonight.” One more press of his hand adds to the thick mass of soap already slowly sliding towards the drain._

_Leaning against the counter, he crosses his arms, quirks an eyebrow as he watches her. Thumb sliding across her phone absently, not meeting his eyes, a hand brushing her hair back from her face, her teeth burrowing into her unnaturally pink bottom lip._

_“Why’d you really call me in here, Bill?” he breathes._

_She finally looks up at him as she slips her phone back into her tiny black bag, and she knows. Must see it in his eyes just as he can see it in hers._

_He’s come this far, taken the false bait; she needs to take the final step._

_She does._

_The purse slips from her shoulder and onto the floor as she closes in, palms and fingertips on his cheeks, hips pinning his to the counter as she takes what’s hers. There’s no gentle build-up, no patience between them for chastity. Her mouth closes around his bottom lip and she tastes like lipstick, feels like warmth and silk and_ heaven _and his last shred of restraint dissolves under her touch, any power to resist her melts against the heat of her kiss. He lets her have her fill, needs it, too, more even than the last time: it’s like they’re making up for lost time._

_It doesn’t worry him: that she’s suffocating and his mouth holds her last source of oxygen, that he’s starving and her lips are his only nourishment. That her hands move back into his hair as she presses herself closer, like she’s trying to meld their bodies together, fuse their mouths in a permanent expression of desire. Because desperation’s always been their game. They tease and flirt and play nice for too long; they cave and surrender to temptation, devour each other like it’s their last night on earth._

_No, he doesn’t worry. He basks and delights and bathes in it, in her, because nothing has ever felt so fucking good, so deliciously right. It’s all he can do not to moan when she sucks on his bottom lip, when her tongue brushes past his lips and she makes that delightful sound in the back of her throat as she tastes him._

_His hands smooth down her sides and grip her waist as he tries to pull her against him but she can’t get any closer; he growls against her lips and she circles her hips against him, subtle friction to calm their frustration. He does moan, this time, and it’s too loud even muffled by her mouth._

_“Dave,” she whispers, separating their mouths with a sloppy wet sound. “Shh…” One hand leaves his hair to travel across his cheek, until her thumb can brush over his lips, illustrating her point by pressing them closed for a moment. She smiles, breathes a chuckle like she’s proud of herself. Playful. Seductive. As he’ll always expect._

_She frees his lips as she rests her palm over his cheek, strokes the pad of her thumb over the lawn of stubble, doesn’t seem to mind it the way she used to, seems only to savor the rough texture._

_“God, I’ve missed you.” Her voice is soft, almost hesitant as those dark honey eyes blaze into his, like she’s worried he’ll change his mind, disappear, but she’s too far gone to hold back._

_It’s such a beautiful thing, to hear those words in the lovely, distinctive cadence of affection only she can achieve, he’s rendered inarticulate, can only hum in fervent agreement as he reunites their lips._

She hasn’t even texted him.

She’s busy, to be fair. Had to go back to the States herself, even, for a convention he’d brushed off months before he found out Billie was making an appearance. Another thing he kicks himself for on a daily basis. 

But after what happened, after how they left things, he’d hoped to hear from her, sooner rather than later.

Really, though, he knows why she hasn’t. She’s in the same damned sinking boat of disloyalty that he is; trying to paddle against a decade of instincts and chemistry and memories and, for once, do the right thing. Not give into temptation. Not even invite it.

But these days, he doesn’t quite feel like being so noble.

\---

There’s a text waiting for him in the morning.

Squinting to get some measure of relief from the sunlight pouring in from the open shades (which he should’ve closed last night), he leans over the night stand and just makes out the notification on the screen. It’s from her.

\- So many questions about you today -

Instantly his finger mashes the button to turn off the screen as he glances over his shoulder in half a panic, waiting to be found out, for the interrogation to start, but the woman next to him is still asleep. Shit. He fumbles with his phone trying to get the screen on again, drops it on the carpet next to the bed. Takes a moment to calm his racing pulse, will away the heat in his cheeks, still his shaking fingers before attempting to type a response. He sees the message is from two hours before and curses the stupid, hedonistic late-night rendezvous that kept him up so late.

\- What are you on about? -

After ten minutes of staring at the screen, waiting for three animated gray dots, he gets out of bed for fear he’ll go insane contemplating the worst much longer, what Billie might have told their mates after one too many drinks.

\---

He doesn’t let go of his phone, checks it compulsively every thirty seconds while he flips pancakes for everyone else and makes a hedgehog out of his trimmed locks with his fidgety hands. Wonders for the billionth time if it’s the reason Billie seems to have lost all self-control.

Her response finally comes an hour later.

\- Yeah, during this panel. Everyone wanted to talk about you, you should have been there -

Cool relief floods through him, an ice pack for the heated tendrils of guilt consuming him. It’s just the convention. Fans asking. Right.

For at least a few days longer he can keep pretending no one’s suspicious about their too-affectionate friendship and no one ever will be. He keeps his response playful, not wanting to let on the roller coaster his stomach’s been on the last hour.

\- Well, hope you’ve said good things. -

This time her reply is instant.

\- Might’ve said too much -

Oh, no. What could she have said? Should he be flattered, worried? Ecstatic, horrified?

He doesn’t text back. Doesn’t dare to until he’s seen for himself.

These things always find their way onto the Internet somehow. Usually within a couple of hours, if his experience at Comic-Con is anything to go by.

He takes longer than usual to experiment with the new (or rather, classically revived), hair, an excuse to tap a few of the first searches that make sense into his phone. Gets a few quotes he shakes his head at, won’t believe ‘til he hears her voice.

Lets the dog for a walk later, searches again. Probably unwittingly ignores some people hollering for him on the street. More loads of rubbish, no video uploads. It’s starting to make him anxious. Every single panel in history on YouTube in twenty minutes, and yet this, _this_ – no one happened to record? He needs this. It’s not just about what she said, it’s the sentiment behind it. He needs to know they’re going to be okay after this, that they haven’t finally crossed a line past which their shaky platonic relationship can’t be recovered.

He thinks it’s terrible enough not being able to kiss her, love her, please her to his heart’s content; but if there’s one thing that would truly destroy him, it’d be losing her altogether. As a friend, lover, ex-lover, costar, whatever label they deserve these days.

He needs to know how she’s feeling, where they’re gonna go from here.

He’s standing in line for takeout, looking ridiculous as ever with a hoodie pulled over his head, dark sunglasses over his eyes, tapping his foot as he chances another refresh of a page in hopes someone will have some digital evidence, when the page finally yields a new result. He has to squint, hold the screen inches from his face to read it all with the damn shades darkening the screen but he’s hit a gold mine.

It’s almost an hour of audio. This must be it. Bookmarking it, he walks to the counter ready to inquire about the order when he remembers he’s been listening for his name, instead of the faux one he decided on today. It’s the same bloke who’s always here, and he hands him the steaming plastic bag of food as soon as he’s at the counter with a smile he sheepishly returns before thanking him and rushing outside.

\---

Whatever he expected, it wasn’t this.

Everywhere he goes, even doesn’t go, people are asking about him. Questions and comments and speculation about his days as the Doctor still follow him through life in a thick cloud. He doesn’t mind it, not in the least. Even now, it’s still flattering, an honor he could never complain about. He expected the sorts of questions Billie gets from the young members of the audience.

What he doesn’t expect is the way she says his name, that first time. It’s a token of affection as much as a sigh of longing, the way the word forms on her tongue, the smile on her face carrying through his headphones as clearly as if he were watching the footage. The way she goes above and beyond the call of the question, elaborates, makes sure her stories and anecdotes always circle back to the two of them together – the volatile, catching sparks of their fledgling friendship (to the convention’s knowledge).

He can’t help that he counts. It’s thirteen times she says his name, and he thinks it’s at least twelve too many to pass as innocent, as accidental. Too many times he wasn’t a logical segue; rather something that escaped from her lips again and again. For Christ’s sake, he really thinks he can control himself better than this. She tries to rein herself in, after a few minutes. Fails, though, and miserably. He hopes he’s the only one who can tell she’s overcompensating when she tries to convince the interviewer ‘it wasn’t just about him.’

The lingering doubts in his mind falter and disappear as she confesses he’s her favorite Doctor. As the air leaves his lungs in a whoosh and his eyes gloss over against his will, and he’s smiling despite everything: the unfairness of their divergent lives; the fact that he’s sitting in the living room at one in the morning, in front of the TV and hiding his headphones because he needs an alibi for this; the ache in his chest that things will never be anything close to ideal between them.

She misses him. Can’t stop thinking about what happened, either. It’s all there, in the way she says his name. It’s too familiar, and it takes him half a second to realize why, to remember what he told her all those nights ago. But when he does, the last wall of his insecurity comes crashing down.

 _“David.” That’s worth it right there, the way she sighs his name: that single blissful sound justifies this trip down to hell. It says she’s not shy to confess what she likes, it asks for more, and_ fuck, _she’s enjoying it as much as he is, the way those two innocent syllables are made beautifully obscene on her tongue._

_His teeth graze her neck with every sweeping caress of his lips now, his fingertips digging into her hips to hold her still as she squirms on the tiny counter, begging for another dose of friction. Rather than that, though, he descends on the spot near her shoulder that’s always been too much for her, makes her insane. She’s halfway to a scream before he pulls back, covers her mouth with his hand and drinks in the lust in her eyes._

_He wants to be able to say he didn’t mean for it to happen, that he’s innocent in all this. But he craves them. More than anything else, more even than his own satisfaction, he craves the gorgeous sounds she makes. Wants to see her lose control, to make her scream, now more than ever, while the music’s not loud enough to muffle the sound and the crowd of people on the other side of the thin wooden door threatens to catch them in the act, the people they’ve committed to a life of monogamy with chief among them._

_Though he pretends to regret it now, as they both listen for signs she was heard between muted gasps for air, it was no accident. He’s getting off on the excitement, aroused rather than alarmed by the undeniable risk of their selfish antics, relishing the taste of his long-forbidden fruit for as long as he possibly can._

_“Bills, please,” he breathes against her cheek, lips hovering just out of reach of her skin, while she still fidgets on the tiny countertop, begging for him to finish his sentence, for another kiss, for_ something _. Anything._

_“I want to touch you.” He presses his lips to her cheek for just a moment, brings his other hand from her waist to her knee, fingers toying with the hem of her dress, and she practically whines against his palm. “I want to watch you come apart.” His lips brush against her other cheek with more intent, wet and full of promise as his hand dips under the fabric, fingertips ghosting up the inside of her thigh, until he feels her shiver and he finally uncovers her mouth._

_“Please.” He smiles against her cheek in victory, that even the aging bloke he is, wrinkles around his eyes that take too long to vanish after he smiles and a hairline that’s receded just under a centimeter, she still melts when he says anything vaguely explicit. Finds himself thanking his Scottish roots again._

_“Can you keep quiet?” It’s gravelly even to his own ears as he pulls back enough to meet her desperate gaze, the hunger in his eyes making it clear that it isn’t a request but an instruction. He traces circular designs on the inside of her thigh as her legs spread from around his waist, her sultry heat saturating his fingers as he inches closer._

_“Yes.” Her plea is barely audible, like she’s trying to prove it to him._

_“Hmmm, good” he purrs._

_He claims her lips with his own again, low rumbles of pleasure sounding from deep in his chest as she deepens the kiss, her arms wrapping around his neck as she surrenders to him. His hand drifts to her other leg, swirling patterns inside the opposite thigh as he strokes her tongue with his own._

_He catches her off guard, reaches his hand up to brush the scant fabric of her knickers with barely a pinky finger before retreating back to gliding his hand back and forth over her skin, leaving her legs trembling around him as she breaks their kiss to gasp for air._

_“Dave,” she gasps, praising and pleading at once, and it’s so beautiful he could go off in his pants right now. He caves, returning to her center and pressing his thumb against the fabric, makes three light circles, teasing her sweet spot through the fabric and swollen folds. She cries his name again, and even muted by a whisper it still makes him completely mad._

_“God, Billie,” he whispers rough at her ear, pulling his hand away just slightly, rolling his hips against the counter for some measure of relief from the throbbing hardness in his trousers. “I love when you say my name.”_

_His mouth finds her neck as she rocks her hips forward, searching for the touch he’s taken away. He latches onto the same spot as before as he pulls her knickers aside, slips two fingers between her folds, and her teeth sink into his shoulder as she muffles her cry into his shirt._

_“Christ, you’re soaking wet,” he growls against her skin, when he remembers he has to be gentle, can’t leave marks for_ him _to see later. Has to rely on his tongue, swirls it against her skin between long, messy kisses as he proceeds under her dress._

_He knows it’s cruel, the way he’s tracings shapes around her clit without touching it directly, but he chuckles with satisfaction against her throat when she whimpers for harder, before leaving a trail of rough kisses there, too. He doesn’t torture her forever, zeroes in on that delicate orb of nerves, alternating a feather light touch and firm pressure in broad circles, both fingertips in succession._

_Before he’s even dipped them inside her, she’s close already, from the way she’s wrinkling his shirt as she clings to it for dear life, her nails scratching the back of his neck even through the fabric, the way she can hardly keep the volume down any longer…_

_Someone knocks on the door. Hard. Twice._

_He pulls his hand away; she lets go of him with a gasp before covering her mouth with one hand._

_“David?” An all-too-familiar voice calls from the other side, and he watches Billie’s eyes close in unmistakable guilt._

_He takes a moment, breathes deeply without making a sound. Well, there’s simply no way out of this. He has to say something or risk her finding a way in._

_“Yeah?” he calls, his voice cracking painfully loudly in the horrific silence of the loo._

_“You seen Billie around? We can’t find her, everyone last saw her with you.”_

_“Uh…” he glances down with panic in his eyes at the woman in question, and she’s more prepared than he is. Puts her thumb and index finger up to her lips, takes an invisible drag. “Haven’t seen her. She probably went out for a smoke,” he chokes out, closing his eyes in humiliation. “I’ll be out in a tick.”_

_They don’t have time to debrief, to come down from the high. They just deal with it silently, independently, like a punch to the gut, a bucket of ice water over their heads, without talking or even looking at each other._

_Billie has just enough time to scoop up her purse and climb out the tiny window of the guest quarters, him just enough to wipe the pink stain from around his lips before walking out to the yard with their respective spouses and find her lighting a cigarette, blush on her cheeks they must think is from the chill in the air._

Thirteen times. She remembered what he said, about liking when she says his name. What other way could she get his attention, without making everyone around them suspicious? She must not be upset, must not want to take it back. Maybe he can make this up to her yet.

\- Favorite Doctor ever, hm? - is all he sends.

She must not have let her phone out of sight all day. Types back in only seconds.

\- So you saw it then? –

\- Heard. But yes. Can’t stop thinking about it, either, can you? -

It’s longer this time, before he hears back. He goes insane for a few minutes, wondering if she understands, hoping he’s right about this, hoping she doesn’t take it the wrong way and call him egotistical and say he misunderstood the whole thing. He has to wait on that couch so long he’s actually watching the telly now, some mindless cartoon happens to hold his attention enough that he’s not pulling out his hair (which is a blessing, as it seems to be something of a hot commodity these days).

\- No -

He’s not sure how to respond. Whether she’s happy or upset about the fact her mind’s been as consumed with him as his with her.

\- Meet me at the hotel tomorrow morning. 11am -

He doesn’t hesitate, doesn’t even flinch.

\- Which hotel? -

\- St. David’s. I’ll text you the room number –

He should have known that.

\- What about him? -

He’s confident enough in their ability to read each other’s thoughts that she’ll extract the meaning of his ambiguous concern.

\- Thinks I’m coming home in the evening -

\- I’ll be there. -

He deletes the conversation and turns off the telly before heading upstairs, climbs into bed with his eyes closed because he’s unable to bear the sight of the sleeping form next to him.

But he knows it won’t stop him from going.


End file.
